They got in halfway through the day, tired and hungry and dirty. Bridget headed straight for a bath and a meal—it was brought to her room by one of the serving girls, a luxury she frankly rather despised herself for enjoying—and then went down to the gardens to take a walk in the beautiful weather and enjoy being home again.

In the pavilion in the center of the gardens she saw Cullen and Dorian bent over a board, both quite intent, and she walked over to see what it was they were playing.

As she came closer, Cullen lifted his head and said to Dorian, "Gloat all you like. I have this one."

Dorian, marvelously refreshed after their long trip, leaned back in his chair with that easy confidence that was such a part of him, and laughed. "Sassing me, now, are you, Commander? Delightful! I really didn't know you had it in you."

Bridget hadn't, either. She paused, watching them play for a few moments. This was a whole new side of Cullen—serious, yes, of course, but playful, as well, and entirely confident in his abilities.

At last he noticed her there, and got immediately to his feet. "Inquisitor."

"Leaving so soon? This must mean I win." Dorian smiled up at Cullen, tossing a wink at Bridget.

"He was being polite," she said to him. "Manners, you know."

"Oh, those. Yes, I've heard of them. Very distracting."

Cullen cleared his throat, his confidence and his playfulness deserting him in Bridget's presence. She was sad about that. "Please, don't let me interrupt the game," she urged him. "I'd be glad to watch."

"Well, if you insist—?"

When she did, indeed, insist, Cullen took his seat again. It was a moment before he could put himself back in the mindset of the game, but he managed soon enough, and Bridget watched in silence while they played. She was only a middling chess player herself, but she enjoyed watching skilled players.

Dorian lifted a piece with a flourish and set it down, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. "You need to come to terms with my inevitable victory, you know. You'll feel much better."

Cullen appeared to ignore him, studying the board—and then he deftly moved a piece, capturing the one Dorian had just set down, and leaned back with a broad smile. "And yet I just won—and I feel fine."

The two men stared at one another across the board, victor and vanquished. Dorian shook his head, but he was pleased to have been fairly beaten, Bridget could see. And it was good for him, too, she felt. "Don't get smug," he said to Cullen. "There'll be no living with you."

"Just as there's already no living with you?" Bridget asked him as he got up from his seat.

"Ah, but smug is my natural look. No one would recognize me without it." He squeezed her arm and walked off across the gardens, whistling.

Cullen began replacing the pieces in their starting positions for the next players. "I should return to my duties as well," he said. "Unless—would you care for a game?"

"I'm not very good."

"I'm certain you exaggerate."

"No, I really don't. I'm not very good at all. But I like to play—maybe you can teach me a few things."

"Or perhaps you'll find you're better than you thought you were."

"It's been a while," Bridget said as she took the seat Dorian had just vacated. "And my last chess partner was an eight-year-old."

"An apprentice?"

"No, my … nephew." She so rarely spoke of Declan that it was strange to bring him up in conversation as if everything was just as it seemed.

"Your brother's son?"

"Malachy, yes. He's the current Bann. Declan will inherit."

"Assuming he doesn't have magic."

Bridget looked up, startled. Did Cullen know? And then she relaxed, realizing that her magic was as troubling in the bloodline as if Declan were openly hers. "Yes. Assuming that." She shrugged. "Who knows, maybe some part of this will allow the world to change and let him inherit even with magic."

"Maybe." Cullen didn't sound convinced.

"Do you have siblings?"

"Yes. Two sisters and a brother." As Cullen made his opening move, he chuckled. "I played chess with my sister when I was a child. She always got this stuck-up grin on her face when she won—not unlike Dorian's. And she won all the time, so you can imagine how tired I got of seeing it."

"So you studied and learned to best her at the game." Because of course he had.

Cullen looked up at her in surprise. "I did, yes. With my brother. The look on her face the day I finally won …" He shook his head, chuckling anew at the memory. "It was priceless."

"Have you seen them recently?"

The smile disappeared from his face as if it had never been. "Not in years. Between serving with the Templars and the Inquisition, I … There's been no time." Half to himself, he added, "I wonder if she still plays."

"Where are they now?"

"They moved to South Reach after the Blight."

"I'd be happy to arrange a temporary furlough for you if you want to go visit them."

"Oh. Oh, no. Thank you, Inquisitor, but the work takes precedent, at the moment."

Bridget would have argued, but there was something in his face that said he didn't want her to. "How old were you when you left?"

"Thirteen."

"That's young."

He nodded. "I had a time convincing my father to let me go, but I wanted to learn, very much. And there was so much. In addition to weapon and combat training, initiates must also memorize portions of the Chant, study history, and sharpen their mental focus."

"That's a lot to ask from a young man."

"It was—but I relished the challenge."

Bridget grinned. "Of course you did."

Cullen smiled, nodding. "I have not changed—not in that way, at least," he added, the smile disappearing. "I wanted to learn everything. If I was to give my life to the work, I would be the best Templar I could."

"Were you?"

The look on his face gave Bridget a sudden chill. "Not always." He put his head down and concentrated on the game for a few moments. Then he looked up again, his face serious although not quite so stark. "I saw your report to Leliana. First the Templars, and now the Grey Wardens. Is there anyone in Thedas Corypheus can't touch? Both devoted their lives to fighting evil, and now they serve it."

"Cullen." Bridget held a piece tightly in her hand, the game forgotten for the moment. "If I were possessed by a demon, would you—"

"Without hesitation." He swallowed, and in a noticeably softer tone added, "But I hope to the Maker such a thing never comes to pass."

"As do I. But it's good to know you're there."

"Thank you. Our initial meeting was …"

"You thought I caused the Conclave."

"Yes. And I was still … still very much the person I was in Kirkwall. I hope the Inquisition has helped me to begin to move past that man."

Bridget placed her piece, then reached across the board to touch the back of his hand. "This is a start. The first time we've ever done anything together that wasn't strictly Inquisition business."

"To be honest, I appreciate the distraction."

"You can't be serious all the time." Bridget grinned. "Well, maybe you can."

Cullen laughed. "No doubt I deserved that."

"You work too hard."

"So I've been told. Usually by Varric."

"He does think we're all his characters to control, doesn't he?" Cullen moved a piece and Bridget stared at the board in dismay. "And now you've gone and won the game."

"Yes, I'm afraid I did."

She looked up and saw the grin on his face. "You enjoyed that far too much."

"I admit, I did," Cullen agreed, getting to his feet. "It's nice to know there's something you aren't good at."

Bridget rose, as well, sighing. "Far too many things, I'm afraid."

"You couldn't tell it by the Inquisition," Cullen assured her.

"Thank you. I appreciate your support."

"And you have it, Inquisitor. Fully." He gave her a small bow and headed off in the direction of his office.

Bridget felt she should probably go see about some of the things that had piled up on her desk while she was in Crestwood as well. But in a shaded arbor half-obscured by roses, she thought she saw a familiar figure: Cassandra, deeply engrossed in a book. Wanting to check in with her friend, and curious as to what Cassandra was reading that was holding her attention so avidly, Bridget walked over and poked her head around the rose branches covering the arbor. "Good book?"

Cassandra leaped out of her seat, the book disappearing behind her back so quickly Bridget didn't even see it move. "Ah! Inquisitor. You're back."

"Yes."

"Good trip?"

"Rainy. Muddy. Walking dead. The usual."

Cassandra smiled a little. "But you all returned home safely."

"Yes, we did—and don't think we're off the subject. What were you reading that had you so fascinated?"

"Just … reports. From Commander Cullen."

Bridget didn't bother to dignify that attempt at a lie with a response, and as they looked at each other, it was clear Cassandra knew it wasn't believable.

"You wouldn't be interested."

"Now, how do you know that? Maybe I would."

"Fine," Cassandra snapped. She pulled the book out from behind her back and handed it to Bridget.

The garish cover and the red-headed guardsman on the front were easily recognizable, and Bridget had to stifle a startled giggle before she offended her friend deeply. "This is Swords & Shields. Varric's book."

"I know that."

"It's the latest chapter." She looked up at Cassandra. "You're a fan?"

"I … yes. We've been so busy, I wanted to get caught up. I … got lost in the story." She blushed. "It's literature!"

"Smutty literature," Bridget amended.

Cassandra coughed. "Well … yes." She got to her feet, looking intently at Bridget. "Whatever you do, don't tell Varric."

"Oh, you have to be joking. You expect me to sit on this?"

"Yes."

"But Varric would be tickled to have another fan."

"Varric would never let me hear the end of it," Cassandra growled.

Bridget had to admit that was true. Still … Cassandra and Varric's hostility to one another was a problem for everyone. Particularly herself, since it meant they could barely stand to be in the same room.

Cassandra took the book back, running her fingers over the cover. "They're terrible," she said, "but magnificently so. And this one ends in a cliffhanger! I know Varric is working on the next. He must be! But he would never tell me."

"He might tell me."

"Yes—you could find out, and then tell me. Would you?"

"Perhaps." If Varric would be willing to present Cassandra with a copy of his next chapter, maybe that would go toward reconciling the two of them. It was worth a try. She smiled at her friend. "Who would have guessed that under that taciturn shell beats a true romantic heart?"

Cassandra frowned at her. "Pretend you don't know this about me."

"Why?"

"Because it is no one else's concern. And why should it be such a surprise? After all, romance is not the sole province of dithering ladies in frilly dresses. It is passion. It is being swept away by an ideal. What is not to like about that?"

"You paint a compelling picture. Just not one most people would associate with you."

"I do not need anyone imagining me mooning over stolen kisses."

"I suppose it would depend on who the kisses were stolen from." Bridget smiled. "Any candidates?"

"No," Cassandra said shortly, but Bridget wondered if perhaps the answer had come too soon. Her speculation must have shown in her face, because Cassandra groaned. "I am never going to live this down, am I?"

"Probably not," Bridget agreed.

"Ugh." Cassandra shook her head and repeated her earlier demand. "Please. Pretend you do not know this about me."

She stalked off. Bridget watched her go, smiling, and called after her, "Not a chance," laughing outright as Cassandra flung up a hand and waved it at her in an irritated gesture of helplessness.

Bridget made her way back into the keep, but the prospect of looking over the piles on her desk was no more appetizing than it had been, and instead she ducked into Josephine's office.

The Ambassador was leaning back in her desk chair, laughing, while Leliana leaned a shoulder casually against the wall telling a story, her face far more animated than Bridget had ever seen it. Hating to interrupt their moment of relaxation, Bridget was about to withdraw, when Josephine looked up and saw her.

"Inquisitor! Do come in." She sat up straight, the smile giving way to a more business-like expression. Bridget was sad to see it; the way people jumped to attention, assuming that her presence meant work to do, made her feel as though she only had one role in this place. Perhaps that was what drew her to Blackwall—no matter what, he always saw Bridget instead of the Inquisitor.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," she said now, feeling shy in the presence of these two very formidable women.

"We were only discussing some mutual acquaintances," Leliana said. "Lady Forsythia has sent us a message that she'd rather drown herself than help the Inquisition."

Bridget blinked. "That seems drastic."

"You do not know Lady Forsythia. That would be all in a day's work for her."

"Not that she ever does any work," Leliana added. "Far be it."

"Perish the thought," Josephine agreed, chuckling.

"She also said she'd have us 'flogged alive' if we allied with her brother."

"Does she understand what flogging actually is?"

Leliana shrugged. "It's hard to know exactly what she does understand. But we have her attention, and that is what matters at the moment."

"If you say so." Josephine looked up at Bridget. "We are in the midst of cementing an alliance with Lady Forsythia, if you can't tell."

"That sounds like it isn't going well."

"You'd be surprised how quickly a person can go from 'I'll have you flogged alive' to pledging their men and money to a cause, given the right … persuasion." Leliana nodded to Bridget. "Speaking of, I should get back to work." She glided from the room, her soft shoes making no sound.

Bridget looked back at Josephine, dismayed. "The two of you were having a moment of relaxation and I got in your way. I do apologize!"

"Not at all, Inquisitor." Josephine looked toward the door, her face softening. "Leliana would not have lasted much longer in friendly conversation anyway."

"The two of you both work too hard," Bridget observed. "You should take more time to relax. Neither of your jobs is easy."

"You are not to worry, Inquisitor. It's no less intense than my days at court."

"Couldn't you please call me Bridget? I'm no different than I was before I took this job."

"You make an excellent point … Bridget." Josephine smiled. "It is particularly helpful to talk with Leliana, as she knows so many of the people I deal with on a regular basis, and I have few others with whom to discuss these issues."

"You can always talk to me. I don't know the people, but I would be happy to listen."

"Oh, no, I wouldn't wish to impose. You are busy as well."

"If it were imposing, I wouldn't have offered."

"Well … in that case, there are a few potential alliances it would be helpful to consider …" Josephine gestured to the two comfortable chairs near the fire. "Let us be cozy while we talk, however. And I will ring for some tea, if you like?"

"That would be lovely, thank you. After all that rain and mud in Crestwood, I can't get enough warmth—or tea."

Josephine shuddered delicately, moving across the office to take a chair. "I can only imagine. It must have been a relief to return to Skyhold, no?"

"Such a relief," Bridget agreed. "You and Cullen have done wonders with the place. When I think what it was like when we arrived …"

"Oh, I know! Foundation cracks, nesting animals, miles from any center of civilization …" Josephine looked around her beautifully appointed office with satisfaction. "Our visitors have been pleased with the improvements we have made."

"That must help with diplomacy."

"Yes, indeed. People feel safe here now, which counts for much."

Bridget leaned toward the Ambassador, searching her face. "Have you had trouble feeling safe here?"

Josephine looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting her delicate handkerchief. "I confess, I had … trouble forgetting the attack on Haven. I—Do you know who first leaped to our defense there? Our workers. They were so proud of our work … and Corypheus simply cut them down. So much screaming after that first blast of fire, so many people turned to ash." She closed her eyes.

"I know. I keep feeling that fire's heat on the back of my neck." Bridget tried to push the memories away, the sickening feeling of failure and defeat that had fallen so heavily on her shoulders, but it was difficult to do.

"But you are the one who led us here—to safety. We have much to be grateful for." Josephine sat up straight and plastered on her ambassadorial smile as the staff brought in the tea and a tray of fruit and sandwiches. Pouring the tea, she said, "Lady Regan of Ferelden was here last week, surveying the premises."

"I hope you told her Skyhold isn't for sale," Bridget said dryly, accepting the cup.

Josephine chuckled. "I am not certain she believed me. She also seemed quite taken with the Iron Bull. I am not certain she believed he was not for sale, either."

"If I know Bull, he probably let her think what she wished to think … and got a fair amount of information from her himself." Bridget wasn't always comfortable with the big Qunari, but she had to admit he was very good at getting information—and willing to do just about anything in the process.

"Indeed." Josephine cleared her throat. "She rode a horse in the gates … but was carried out on a litter. She said it was for appearances' sake, to impress Lord Carstairs, who happened to be arriving at the same time—but given that Lord Carstairs is old enough to be her grandfather, and that Bull's horns left a scrape on the doorframe of the room she had been given …"

"Say no more." Bridget chuckled, leaning back in her seat, although behind her amusement she was thinking of what Bull and Lady Regan must have done, and how long it had been since she'd been in that particular position … and, of course, of Blackwall. Hastily, she said, "Anyone else of interest come to visit recently?"

Josephine must have been thinking along the same lines, because with equal haste she launched into a story of a Rivaini guest who had tried to take Varric on at Wicked Grace, and had not been particularly gracious about losing to a dwarf, and then went on to talk about a young man from the Anderfels who had nearly fallen off the battlements in a drunken fight with one of the soldiers over some pretended slight.

As they sipped their tea and talked, the time slipped by, until Josephine looked up, startled to see that the sun was setting. "Oh, my! Inq—Bridget, I am so sorry to have taken up so much of your time!"

"No, no," Bridget assured her. "I'm the one who should be apologizing for monopolizing your time." She got to her feet.

Josephine stood, as well, holding out a hand and clasping one of Bridget's. "I very much enjoyed this, Bridget. Thank you; I didn't realize quite how much I needed a break."

"It's too easy to get caught up in work. I'm here any time you need to take a moment and breathe. Well … except when I'm not here, that is." She smiled.

"I understand." Josephine nodded at her, and Bridget took that as her cue to exit the Ambassador's office.

She wasn't particularly hungry, so she moved around the room talking to people who were relaxing over their dinners before making up a hasty sandwich to take up to her room. She had her own kettle over her fire for tea, so she could be quite cozy tonight going over the things on her desk. They had waited far too long.

Deep in perusal of a note from Josephine regarding the ball at the Winter Palace they were planning to attend, Bridget didn't hear the knock on the door below until it had become insistent. Darkness had fallen in the time she'd spent, and she'd made a fair amount of headway on the stack, but there was more to be done, and she was working well. Whoever this visitor was, she hoped it wouldn't take long.

She went to the stairs and called down, "Who is it?"

There was a pause, and she wondered if perhaps the person had given up and gone away. Then a familiar voice came through the door. "Blackwall."

Her heart thumped heavily in her chest, all thoughts of the papers on her desk utterly vanquished with the single word. He had never come to her quarters before. If he was coming now, so late at night … "Come up," she said breathlessly.

The door opened and Blackwall looked up, seeing her leaning over the railing. She had taken down her braid, and it swung heavily over her shoulder. As he came up the stairs, he saw that she was barefoot, the top few buttons of her jacket open. She looked so delectably tempting, so much as though she had been waiting for him …

He hadn't been certain of himself coming up here, hadn't been sure if he wanted to tell her the truth or if he just wanted to be with her, but now he knew, as surely as he knew he had no business being here.

Bridget smiled at him. "I knew you couldn't stay away."

Against his better judgment, Blackwall smiled back. "No, I couldn't. If only you knew how confounding you are, how impossibly infuriating."

"I do try."

"You succeed." Her eyes were warm and bright and happy—for him. It was intoxicating. He swallowed hard. "I … wanted to thank you for accompanying me to that ruin. I wanted to— I just had to see you." The final words came out in a rush, even as he was reaching for her, even as she swayed into his arms and lifted her mouth for the kiss he couldn't help but take. Her bed was just there, he could—

Blackwall pulled away, and Bridget frowned. She could sense the conflict in him, and she wished she knew what it was about so that she could put his fears to rest.

"No," he said. "This is wrong. I shouldn't even be here."

"It doesn't feel wrong," she told him. "What's the problem, Blackwall? Please tell me. Did you take a vow of celibacy? Do you have a wife somewhere, or did you have one?"

"What? No. It's nothing like that," he protested, and she believed him. "I want to give in; Maker knows how much I wish I could, but I'm not what you want. I could never be what you deserve."

"Is it because you're a Warden? You have a higher obligation to fulfill?" Maker, she hoped not. While she appreciated that he was an honorable man, she wanted him too much, had come to care for him too much, not to be bitterly disappointed if he walked out of here tonight.

He hesitated. "All I am, all I have, I gave to the Wardens."

"I know." It was hard to push the two words out past the lump in her throat.

"But you— This— No." Blackwall shook his head. "I thought I was strong enough to deny this."

"Why?"

"Because … because … You shouldn't throw yourself away on me. I'm not worthy of you."

Bridget put a hand on his cheek, turning his head so that he had to look down at her. "You're wrong. You're a good man."

"Am I?" He wanted to believe it, to see himself through her eyes.

She nodded. "I see it."

He tried, one last time, to avoid the inevitable. "There's nothing I can offer you. You'd have no life with me. But I—I need you to end this, because I can't."

For a moment, he thought she might, as she stood looking up at him. Then she smiled and shook her head. "I'm not letting you go."

Even as he stepped forward and put his arms around her, he had to tell her the truth. "We'll regret this, my lady." But her face was so close to his, her nose bumping against his, and he didn't care. Not enough to tear himself away from her.

Bridget reached up and kissed him, a gentle kiss, like a raindrop. "Do you regret that?"

Blackwall could deny himself, deny her, no longer. He kissed her, allowing himself to drown in the warmth that rose in him, pressing her back until her legs hit the railings.

She reached out with one arm to catch herself on the rail, then wound both arms around his neck, her mouth opening beneath his, inviting the first touch of his tongue on hers.

They lost themselves in kisses, one after another, heated, hungry kisses fueled by the passion that had been building between them for so long.

Bridget's hands went to his jacket, seeking the toggles that held it closed, and unfastened them, shoving the jacket back off his shoulders. She tugged his thin shirt out of his pants and slid her hands beneath it, enjoying the moan he gave at her first contact with his bare skin. He threw his head back, his eyes closing, and she kissed his throat and his collarbones, bunching the shirt up between her seeking hands and her hungry mouth.

At last he pulled back altogether and stripped it off, standing bare-chested before her. He was the most muscular man she had ever been with, by far, his arms corded and his chest thick, with a heavy layer of hair. She rubbed her cheek against it, finding it soft to the touch.

It seemed strange to her to be standing in the middle of a room disrobing slowly, with no concern for being interrupted. "This is the first time—"

He stopped her in the middle of the sentence, looking horrified. "Your first time?"

"No, no! Definitely not. Just the first time I've had leisure. In the Circle, you were always worried a Templar might interrupt you, or another mage. It was always very hasty."

"Ah. In that case, my lady, I intend to take my time." His voice dropped low, sending a shiver through her as he whispered in her ear, his beard brushing the side of her neck. Bridget's head fell back as he held her in his arms, his mouth moving slowly, with tender little kisses, along the curve of her ear and the line of her jaw and down the column of her throat. He ran into the chain, then, the locket shifting into the space left by her open jacket collar, and she clutched for it.

Blackwall released her, then, and she regained her footing, unclasping the locket and laying it carefully in a drawer by the bed. "That's special to you."

"Yes."

"A gift?"

There was a stiffness in his tone that surprised her, and she turned to see him with his shirt in his hand, as though he contemplated leaving. "It's a … family heirloom," she said faintly. Maker, she should tell him now, she thought. But he wouldn't notice—her pregnancy had left very little trace on her skin—and now was hardly the time. And the locket was a family heirloom; it had been her grandmother's. "Nothing more. Did you—" She frowned at him. Was that the reason he had pulled away so often, because of the locket? "Did you think it was to do with a former lover?"

"Yes," he admitted.

"It isn't." It wasn't, really. Mykal had meant so little to her. She wasn't even sure he knew about the pregnancy—he had been whisked away so quickly after the Templars had found out. "Truly." She walked over to Blackwall, taking the shirt from his hands. "This is … You're different. I'm different. Before—there was never any future. In the Circle, tomorrow promised to be the same as yesterday, on and on until we all died. But here, tomorrow can be anything. I'm free to choose at least part of what it will hold. And tonight, tomorrow, the day after—I want them to hold you, Blackwall."

He pressed his forehead against hers, relieved, but not relieved. If her emotions were engaged elsewhere, if she still loved someone from her past, then perhaps he wasn't doing so much damage. But he would have hated knowing she still clung to an old love. He wanted to be in her heart and on her mind and in her bed—him and him alone.

"Blackwall," she whispered again. Then, she asked, "What is your first name? I'm not sure I've ever asked."

He was certain she must have felt the way he started at the question. She hadn't asked; nor had anyone else. No one ever asked. He wasn't even certain if he had asked. The real Blackwall must have had a name, but he no longer remembered it, if he had ever known it in the first place. "Blackwall is fine, my lady."

"You can tell me." Her little fingers were caressing the back of his neck, making it very hard to think. And he found he almost wanted her to know, that he wanted to make an attempt to reclaim at least this one piece of who he used to be.

"Only for you, then." The last thing he needed was to have her call him by the wrong first name in front of someone who might know the difference. Then he had a stroke of genius. "My mother always called me by my middle name, Thom."

"Thom." She looked up at him, the light from her eyes caressing his face as her fingers had his neck. "It suits you. Kiss me, Thom."

"My pleasure, my lady." He stopped her mouth with a long kiss, working the buttons on her velvet jacket at the same time, sliding it down her arms. He dropped to his knees in front of her, pushing up the silk camisole she wore and kissing her belly. It was faintly rounded, the skin soft beneath his lips. He pushed the camisole up further, kissing his way up her ribcage. She took over, lifting the fabric up the rest of the way, pulling the garment up and over her head, reaching around to unfasten her breastband and drop it on the floor next to them.

He worshipped her breasts with fingers and tongue and mouth, as she gasped and sighed with the pleasure. It had been a long time since he had touched a woman like this, and he'd been afraid he'd lost his touch. But Thom Rainier had known how to give pleasure, and Blackwall was glad to have kept at least this much of who he had once been.

His free hand made its way up her thigh and cupped her, finding the seat of her pants already damp against him. Bridget cried out, her hips jerking against his touch. "Please, Blackwall. Thom."

Blackwall got to his feet, trying to remove her pants and his own at the same time. Bridget giggled as he fumbled about, pushing his hands away and removing the rest of her clothing herself while he hastily worked himself out of his.

She lay back across the bed, her arms reaching out for him, and he eagerly joined her, both moaning into each other's mouths at the first contact of naked skin against naked skin. They kissed some more, bodies shifting against each other, building up the friction until Bridget couldn't wait any longer. She reached for him, stroking him while he pressed his head against his shoulder and his hips more firmly into her touch, his breathing heavy and fast and harsh against her skin. And then she guided him into her, lifting her hips as he filled her slowly.

"Maker," he whispered.

"Mm." Bridget wrapped one leg around his hip, the angle shifting as she did so that he reached just the right spot, a wave of pleasure pouring through her. He moved again, and again, going slowly so that he could watch her face change with each stroke, her eyes closing and her mouth going slack, her moans increasing in volume as she came closer to the pinnacle.

He was moving faster now, unable to help himself, craving more and more. He could feel it building, the tension rising higher and higher until he could hold it back no longer. Bridget's hands were clutching him, her nails digging into his back as she held him more tightly against her, moving with him, their bodies slick with sweat.

The waves poured over them in a flood, their voices mingling until their mouths found each other again.

They lay like that for a long time, exchanging kisses as their breathing came back to normal and their bodies cooled. At last, Bridget sighed, shifting into him so that her head was tucked against his shoulder. "Wow."

"Is that right?" he chuckled, kissing her temple, his fingers stroking her hair where the braid was starting to come loose.

"I mean, it's been a while since I've done that, but … I don't remember it ever being quite like that."

"See what happens when you can take your time?"

"You've entirely spoiled me for quick fumbles in the halls," she agreed sleepily.

"Well, don't knock a quick fumble, my lady," he said, his voice a low growl as he thought of the possibilities.

"Mm. We'll see." She rubbed her nose against him, turned her head to the side, gave a little sigh of contentment, and was asleep, as suddenly as a child might be.

Blackwall lay awake for a little longer, looking out through the balcony doors at the stars, forcing himself not to think about the consequences of this step and instead to think of the beautiful, strong, funny, tender, passionate woman he held in his arms. Whatever consequences were to come, whatever pain there would inevitably be, he hoped as much of it as possible fell on his shoulders instead of hers.